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Before light had fully arrived, I stood beneath the western gallery, watching the wall where time leaned inward.  She did not appear suddenly; she emerged, as if remembered.  A carved figure, her gesture softened into a near-erasure.  Her face, nearly gone.  Yet something remained whole.

I did not lift the lens.  I only stood there, breathing where breath thins into reverence.  No birds sang.  Even the wind withheld itself.

She no longer belonged to any era.  Her beauty was no longer defined by line, but by presence—the quiet radiance of a form too worn for praise, too luminous to be forgotten.

 

First light on wet stone—
a presence too worn for names,
but not for stillness.


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